


Become Impossible

by very



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Neediness, Pre-Coin Flip, Pre-Game(s), Sharing a Bed, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/very/pseuds/very
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sabin is adrift, and his brother longs to anchor him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Become Impossible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terra_branford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terra_branford/gifts).



He's not sleeping, not yet, but the murmured sound of his name is so delicate and dreamlike that it doesn't yet register as real.

There is a soft thud and then a click: the sound of his bedroom door closing. "Sabin," is whispered again, and the urgent undertone in his brother's voice cuts through the last of his veil of lethargy and guides him to wakefulness.

Sabin sits up, blankets pooling at his waist, and the skin of his chest and arms prickle against the last of the desert's midnight chill not yet banished by the rolling flames of the crackling fireplace. "Edgar?" he asks.

His eyes are still adjusting to the darkness, and to the disparate lights of the room as cool white moonlight gives way to the warm orange glow of the fire. Edgar stands before him clad in his favourite set of silk pyjamas, the dark navy fading into the darkness of the room, but the electric brilliance of his eyes would pierce even the blackest night.

"I'm cold," Edgar says.

Sabin can't resist. "Goodness knows you've got no lack of warm beds with even warmer maidens who would welcome you," he teases.

Edgar gains the expected smile but his eyes remain flat and Sabin immediately regrets the comment that no longer seems clever. "And therein lies the secret, my dear brother," Edgar says softly. "Give them what they long for, and they will long for you no longer."

Sabin throws back his covers, making a space beside himself. "Madame Prieur will lecture us if she catches us twice in one week," he warns.

Edgar's bare feet pad quietly across the stone floor as he makes his way to the bed. "It's past one. She won't make any more rounds tonight," he says, ignoring the stepstool and instead clambering up on the bed directly. He cuts a graceless figure, all knees and elbows, and when Sabin lets out a snort of amusement, Edgar punches him hard in the side.

"Shush!" Edgar hisses. "And shove over; you haven't left me any space at all."

"This is my side of the bed!" Sabin protests in an undertone, though he does find himself shuffling to the side anyway. "You just wanted the warm spot."

"That side's closer to the fire," Edgar says, pulling the blankets back up over the two of them and settling down on his side facing the window, his back to Sabin. Sabin rolls on his side to face the fire, and waits. Edgar can never let things remain unsettled, and Sabin knows he can always wait him out.

Moments pass, and then Edgar shuffles against him, their backs and buttocks pressed against the other's. "Hey," Edgar says.

"Hey," Sabin echoes quietly.

"Stop skipping lessons," Edgar says bluntly. "I'm going to go crazy if you're not there to suffer with me."

"No one'd notice," Sabin says. He knows he's being flippant and expects retaliation, but the sudden elbow in his side catches him by surprise. It's at an awkward angle, more of a graze, but the start it gives him is enough to drive the air from his admittedly weak lungs and send him coughing.

Edgar pulls away, leaving a cold spot in his absence, and rolls on to his other side.

"Stop fidgeting," Sabin complains, throat raw.

Edgar rests a hand on Sabin's back at lung height and rubs in an apologetic circle. "How've you been feeling? Were you sick today? Is that why you didn't—"

"I wasn't sick," Sabin interrupts him. "Sick of listening to Master Gasparini blather on about a bunch of long-dead people and their long-dead empires, yes, but not ill."

"I think it's boring too, but there's no escape from it," Edgar says, thumb rubbing gently against his skin. "It's expected of us. If we're to be king—"

If there's a topic he loathes more than Edgar fretting about his health, it's Edgar fretting about the throne; Sabin should have said he was ill. "You're the eldest; you're to be king. 'A kingdom with two kings is as a family with two fathers'," Sabin quotes at him, rocking away from Edgar's hand.

Edgar snorts. "Since when have you ever cared about what the Archminister had to say? You know how he is; he's not so much a proponent of tradition as he is an imaginatively bankrupt fossil," he says dryly. "Just because it's never been done before...."

"By any kingdom in any land in all of recorded history," Sabin points out.

"So you've been paying at least some attention to Master Gasparini," Edgar teases.

He needs to settle this quickly before it turns into yet another fruitless debate. "It hasn't been done, and for good reason. The ultimate responsibility for the kingdom lies with her king: he casts the final vote in matters of state, and can overrule the decisions of the Ministries. How can two people share one position? 'Two minds cannot speak with one voice'," Sabin says.

"Father says that for the house to have twins was a blessing, that the kingdom can only benefit from having two stewards devoted to her welfare," Edgar says.

Sabin can't stop the corner of his mouth from curling. "'An heir and a spare'."

"Piss on that wretched man," Edgar says venomously. "The Archminister cares only to secure the power of his office. He thinks two of us would be harder to control, and he's absolutely right."

"It's a pointless argument," Sabin sighs, hoping they can get it over with and Edgar can set his crusade aside for another day. "Either Father rewrites the Articles or he doesn't. Not that it matters any time soon: he's young and in excellent health; he rides almost every day. Grandfather lived until he was ninety-two."

"I'm not arguing," Edgar says, his tone coloured with just enough petulance that Sabin doesn't need to point out that Edgar already knows he is indeed. "Just... come to lessons," Edgar begs, his voice soft. "Don't leave me alone."

Shame floods through him; he's a terrible brother to have made Edgar sound so. "I didn't—I wasn't—I'll be there," Sabin promises, saying what needs to be said and done without making excuses for himself. "All right? You can count on me."

Edgar curls up against him, chest pressed to Sabin's back, and hooks a leg around one of Sabin's as he slings his free arm around Sabin to give him a full-body embrace. "Good," Edgar murmurs into his ear.

Sabin reaches up to squeeze Edgar's hand, and on impulse brings it against his chest, atop his heart. "I'm here," he says, voice hoarse. "As you are for me, I am for you." But it's an inadequate gesture in the overwhelming warmth of his brother's love, and so he lets go and pulls away so that he can turn to his other side and come face to face with his twin, ensuring he captures Edgar's gaze with his own.

Warmth floods through him as he commands his brother's absolute attention. He takes Edgar's hand in his, knitting their fingers together in a clasp of such tightness that though it he can feel the beating of their hearts, quicker now than moments ago.

Edgar's thumb strokes against the side of his hand and his eyes soften. "Sabin," he says, his voice husky. "You are not redundant. You are not unnecessary. You are not a _spare_ ," he says, nearly hissing the distasteful word. "You are Sabin Rene, Crown Prince of the House of Figaro, future King of Figaro, and to listen to the petty politicking of the Archminister is beneath you," he says, with the confidence that will surely earn him the trust of his people as easily as he has earned their love. "You are my brother, my twin; I cannot rule without you at my side, and neither can you without me. We are but one soul broken into two pieces; half a man cannot call himself king."

Sabin swallows hard and releases Edgar's hand, their contact too intimate for such a raw declaration. "Enough about this 'petty politicking'," he says, voice hoarse. "I'll come to lessons."

"Good," Edgar says, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows. "I meant to work on my design for the moon phase complication, but without you there, Master Gasparini was relentless in his questions and left me no time at all for draughtsmanship," he says, lightness returning to his tone at last.

"How appallingly rude of him, to require your full attention during lessons," Sabin says dryly.

"Indeed," Edgar says, his smile sly. "Which is why tomorrow you ought to show me where you hid and we both will take a day off, instead of you so selfishly stealing one alone and depriving your poor brother of such a necessary respite."

Sabin huffs through his nose. "Two days in a row? Madame Prieur would strap me. And I wasn't hiding! I just didn't come to the library."

"You were too hiding; I know they looked for you," Edgar accuses.

"They didn't look very hard," Sabin says.

"So where were you?" Edgar asks.

It's a simple enough question with a simple enough answer, but now that attention's being drawn to it, Sabin feels the warmth of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "Your room," he says simply. "So if we're going to play truant together next week, we'll need a new spot."

"Next week?" Edgar asks, surprise tingeing his obvious delight. "All right. We'll find somewhere, someplace they won't find us."

"Or we could just say we want a day off," Sabin says, guilt creeping in at seeing his brother so easily seduced by vice. "I'm sure it'd be fine."

"A day off..." Edgar says musingly. "We could make an entire day of it, leave the castle."

"We could travel to South Figaro; we haven't been to the town in months," Sabin says.

Edgar wrinkles his nose. "And require an escort of a dozen men, have absolutely no privacy, and be barred from visiting the taverns or anywhere else that might be halfway interesting? I think not."

"Wherever we go, we'd be escorted," Sabin points out. "There's no way we'd be able to leave the castle alone."

"Not without causing a panic once they've realised we've gone," Edgar says slyly.

"Edgar!" Sabin hisses. "They'd murder us for the scare, and then they'd murder the guard captain for the lapse that allowed it."

"Oh, I was just kidding," Edgar says breezily, though Sabin readily recognises it as the tone he uses when disclaiming a scheme he would have happily executed had he not been prevented. "You needn't sound so horrified. Fine, then; we'll go with your original plan."

"We'll see if we can get Tomasino to come with us; he's reasonable, and won't mind if we want to go to a tavern," Sabin says.

"Oh, not South Figaro; I meant my room," Edgar says.

Sabin can feel himself flush clear to his ears. "Brother..." he says, unsure of what warning to issue but knowing that one is necessary. It's been difficult to navigate the maintenance of the line they've drawn between the two of them and the rest of the world; as much as he knows that their closeness cannot be judged by others, Sabin isn't naïve enough to think it could ever be discovered without staining his house, his brother, and himself with irredeemable disgrace. They've been sure to only steal moments in the dead of night with the castle asleep, and to jest of such a thing as Edgar has, even now while the two of them are alone, had been until now unimaginable.

Edgar's mouth gains a gentle curve mirrored in the corners of his eyes. "Or perhaps we might lounge in the solar enjoying comestibles while working on self-directed study projects. It would be positively enriching; the masters will surely approve."

He should be annoyed, he is sure, but attempting to summon that emotion fails before the light of his brother's eyes. "I'll let you be the one to propose it to them, then," Sabin says. "Is there no one you cannot charm?" He'd meant the comment to be pointed, but instead it comes out mildly tinged with despair.

On an ordinary day the question might elicit from Edgar a diamond smile bright with teeth, a throaty chuckle warm with amusement, or an arched brow and a cheeky wink, but Sabin knows in the fragment of a moment before his words register that there will be no amusement from his twin tonight.

"Do you find me charming?" Edgar asks, his voice quiet, his eyes focused. On any other day his question would be glib, but tonight there's a thread of unnameable melancholia underlying his tone.

"Everyone finds you charming," Sabin says. "You could murder a man in the throne room during morning reading and in under a minute you'd have his brother apologising to you for the inconvenience and offering to clean up the blood himself."

"I practice," Edgar says softly. "Being charming, being liked; it's a skill, not a talent. I'm getting better. And yet you still disappear for hours on end without telling me where you've gone; you stare into space and I find I cannot read the thoughts inside your head."

Edgar's gaze is strong and sure, and he goes such a long time between blinks that Sabin can't match him, and instead has to blink several times in quick succession to rehydrate his eyes.

"I don't go anywhere," Sabin says. "I don't think anything. It's not that I'm keeping anything from you; I couldn't; you're my brother. I just... go, sometimes."

This time when Edgar smiles his eyes are dark. "Away from what? Our lessons? Petty politicking? Me?" he asks, voice cracking on the last word.

Sabin grabs his brother, slinging his free arm around Edgar's back and reaching forward with his trapped arm to grab a fistful of Edgar's pyjama top. He draws Edgar close as he leans in to press a kiss against his mouth, then buries his face in the crook of Edgar's neck, breathing in deeply the scent that matches his own. "I love you," he murmurs, his throat thick with the words. "Never, ever doubt that. I love you, brother."

Edgar clutches him, fingers scrambling against Sabin's bare chest. He hooks a leg over Sabin's, eliminating the very last millimetre of space between them, and the shock of arousal that courses through Sabin has an immediacy sharp enough to shame him; he can't let himself be ruled by his lesser emotions when his brother has need of him.

"I know," Edgar says, his voice clear and without hint of weakness. "And I you: I love you more than can be conveyed, more than can be borne."

With no space between them Sabin knows that Edgar must be able to feel Sabin's stiffening cock pressed against his hip. Sabin focuses on breathing deeply, drawing a single long breath to steady himself.

Edgar shifts against him, pulling back, but only just enough so he can press a kiss of his own against Sabin's mouth, Edgar's bitten lips rough as they slide against his own. The kiss is slow, lingering: a strangely sweet gesture from his impetuous and ofttimes demanding brother, complemented by the gentle way Edgar's hand finds his and meshes their fingers together.

Edgar closes the kiss with a purse, the soft sound seeming to echo off the stone walls around them.

"The world is an impossibly large place," Edgar says, "and all our studying from all those musty books can only tell us so much. When we attain our majority we'll go on a tour of the world: we'll see the glacier caves of Narshe, the endless grasslands of the Veldt, the cherry blossoms of Thamasa. We'll go to the opera and sit in the box closest to the stage and drink wine until we can neither of us stand. We'll get drenched in the rainshowers of Zozo—" Edgar says, and as much as Sabin has allowed himself to be drawn into his twin's fantasies, that last item simply beggars belief.

"Father would have the guard haul us home by our ears if he so much as imagined we might get within half a day of that place," Sabin points out.

He'd expected his brother to cluck his tongue against his teeth in disapproval, or perhaps to dismiss Sabin's pessimism with an insouciant flick of his gaze, but Edgar's lips remain curved in the slight, secretive smile with which he'd spoken of the fantastic. "We'll rent the finest suites in the finest hotels in all the towns we visit, and spend our nights making love until dawn breaks across the horizon." The words are spoken so softly that Sabin might not have been sure he heard them at all, had they not immediately engraved themselves upon the heart that clenches painfully within his chest.

"Brother..." is the only response to which Sabin can give voice.

"If I'm dreaming of impossible things..." Edgar trails off, his crooked smile still upon his lips but fading from the corners of his eyes. "Then where would you have us go? What would you have us do?"

Sabin wishes he had his brother's expansive imagination and his ability to speak extemporaneously off even the briefest prompt for the most open-ended subject matter. "I don't know," he admits.

"Come now," Edgar entreats, "there must be something. What would make you happy?"

Sabin closes his eyes in thought—but only for a moment. Perhaps it's a simpler question than it first appeared.

Sabin gives Edgar's hand a squeeze. "I'm happy now, here, with you," he says.

Edgar's teeth flash as he succumbs to an unmeasured grin before swooping in to press an uncomplicated kiss of almost chaste simplicity to Sabin's mouth. "Then let us seize this moment and keep hold of it for as long as we can," he proposes, lips brushing against Sabin's as he speaks before slipping effortlessly into another kiss. His lips move languorously, as if there would never be need to hurry, and for long moments Sabin can almost let himself believe it could be possible. But as careful as he is to mirror his brother's measured pace, he cannot deny the quickening of his heartbeat and the shortening of his breath as his body succumbs to the arousal he had earlier attempted to forbid himself and now brings him to fullness, aided by the slow rolling of his Edgar's hips against his and the feel of his brother's own erection pressing against him with growing firmness.

Edgar places a hand upon Sabin's side, drawing his fingertips along the bare skin just atop the waistband of his pyjama trousers with exquisite delicacy. "Let me take these off," he breaks their kiss to murmur, and they make space enough between them so that Edgar's hands can find the drawstring and pull it apart, loosening the waistband so that he can carefully tug the trousers out and down to free Sabin's erection. It's quick work for Sabin to use his feet to draw them the rest of the way off and kick them to the foot of the bed, and then he reaches up to unbutton his brother's sleep shirt and slide it off his shoulders before reaching down to untie his pants. In only a few moments more they're naked under the protective cocoon of their blankets and coverlet, and Edgar pulls him close with a sudden strength that speaks to the immediacy of their need.

Their kisses grow deeper, faster, less precise as Edgar hooks a leg around him and grinds their hips together, their cocks rubbing together as they rub against their bellies. It's too much, too little, not consistent enough for what they're building towards, and Sabin reaches between them to take them both in hand and stroke. Edgar's hand closes atop his and squeezes, and together they're desperate to add more pressure, more friction, more sensations as they writhe against each other with increasing fervency.

Sabin knows he's panting but can't help it, can't find the self-control to prevent anything short of moaning aloud; Edgar answers him with sharp, short gasps punctuated with frantic, fierce, messy kisses he peppers across Sabin's mouth, his chin, his cheeks. Edgar's hand clasps around his, jockeying for position, and when Edgar's fingertips rub across the heads of their cocks Sabin does moan, muffling his outburst into the shelter of his twin's mouth, praying it wasn't loud enough to escape the room.

"Please," Edgar begs against his mouth, his voice thready and ragged. "Please, brother, please—"

Sabin arches against him, muscles straining with the effort. "I love you," he promises fervently, "I love you, I love you, I—"

Edgar's breath catches and he goes utterly still for an impossible moment before he thrusts again into their shared grip with a whimper, and he comes in four quick, jerking spasms that streak thick lines of come across Sabin's chest before their bodies meet again and smear his issue across both of them.

Edgar grabs him suddenly by the wrist, startling him, and takes advantage of the moment by knocking Sabin's hand away so that he can take Sabin's cock in his own hand alone, his grip tightening, his strokes twisting. Sabin's so close that he can't concentrate, can't focus, can't think; it's a relief to be able to collapse and give himself over entirely to the ministrations of his brother whose hand unerringly finds the rhythm he knows Sabin needs most, who applies just the right amount of pressure, whose fingertips brush the most sensitive spots under the ridge of his cockhead with every stroke.

"I love you," Edgar breathes, the brilliant light of his irises nearly eclipsed by the darkness of his dilated pupils. Sabin knows he does, is blessed to hear him say it every day, can feel it coursing through his veins in the blood they share, and when Edgar presses his lips once more to Sabin's he is undone.

He trembles when he comes, and it's only after Edgar's drawn him into his arms that his shaking slows and then stops.

Sabin doesn't know how long they spend entangled, only that it is too soon when Edgar pulls away and begins the process of tidying up, cleaning himself off and pulling his pyjamas back on. Sabin does the same, retrieving his pyjama bottoms from the foot of the bed.

Edgar's gone to the window to let in the midnight air, but the slump to his twin's normally elegantly-held shoulders gives Sabin an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. "Are you going to stay tonight?" he asks.

Edgar turns back to face him. "Madame Prieur is sure to give us the speech about being far too old to be bedmates any longer," he says, his tone artificially light.

"We've heard it a hundred times if we've heard it once; I'll hear it for the one hundred and first," Sabin offers, and draws the blankets back.

Edgar ducks his gaze for a moment, but when he raises his head he wears the ingenuous smile that Sabin has always loved most, and once more assumes his place beside him.


End file.
